


Fly Me To The Moon

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: holmestice, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes was a cautious man. A brilliant, self-possessed, clever, dangerous, cautious man. He was not a coward, no matter what the box under his bed implied. A bit of Mycroft and Molly sweetness</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Me To The Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hitlikehammers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/gifts).



> Written for Holmestice 2013, for Hitlikehammers.
> 
> Spoilers for S3Ep3, possible spoilers for S3 and canon in terms of character deaths and not deaths.

Molly wondered if this was inertia.  _A really lovely sort of inertia,_  she amended, looking over one bare shoulder at the man in her room. Mycroft Holmes was adjusting his tie, smoothing his hair, pretending he was not watching her back, not staring in the mirror that showed her bed, her bare leg and arm against the dark mauve sheets. He sat on the foot of her bed, awkward when he forgot about the low foot-board before it cut into the backs of his thighs, shifting just so and trying to be suave. “It's early,” she said, voice barely a whisper in the cool air of the room, the humid warmth of their coupling long since dissipated. “Hope it's not too terrible of an emergency.”

  
Mycroft smiled, thin but honest. “I suppose it depends upon your definitions of 'terrible' and 'emergency'.” He tied his shoes like any other man, and that always surprised Molly a bit. Part of her expected some sort of effortless grace, a magical twist of his long, slender fingers, and  _presto!_  the shoes are tied and his mystique is untouched. But no, he hopped a bit when putting on his pants, fiddled with his belt buckle, and tugged the bow of his laces just like anyone else. Molly smiled into her pillow, snuggling down and wishing she had grabbed the duvet when Mycroft's phone shrilled it's familiar alarm half an hour ago. Mycroft slipped into his suit coat and paused, looking down at her. “I'll call you when I have a moment.”

  
She nodded, no longer hurt by the phrasing. “Take care, Mycroft,” she mumbled into her pillow, sleep already tugging at her brain once more. Her own alarm wouldn't go off for another three hours and she was already parceling out extra time, taking nips from her morning routine to stretch out the lie-in for a half hour or so. Her fuzzy senses registered that Mycroft had not yet departed, and she felt a twinge of worry. Peeking out from the pillow, from under her bare arm, she saw him turn away, head for her bedroom door, and not look back. Molly's lips curled into a frown but sleep crept back in before she could parse why his dismissal rankled.

 

  
Molly stared into the open chest cavity of Mister O'Gorman and sighed. “This is really lodged in here, Sherlock. It's not going to come out in one piece.”

  
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock began, face drawn into familiar lines of exasperation, whatever he had been about to say next cut off by a none-too-subtle throat clearing from John. “Fine,” Sherlock snapped, folding his arms like a sullen adolescent. “Do carry on, Molly. We'll just kick our heels here whilst a murderer goes on their merry way!”

  
“Sherlock,” John said, low and tired, “if you continue to be a dick, you're walking home. Is that understood?”

  
Molly bit back a smile. Since his miraculous resurrection and subsequent benediction from the press and general public (and despite pockets of disbelief, hate, and conspiracy theorists), Sherlock had been just a tad more biddable than usual. It was all down to John, Molly knew. More than anyone else, more than anything else, John Watson had brought Sherlock to humanity and lodged him there as firmly as the shard of glass in Mister O'Gorman's chest. “Oh, bugger,” Molly sighed, her thoughts disrupted by a tiny cracking noise. “Most of it is still in the lung tissue.”

  
“That's fine,” John said, laying a hand on Sherlock's elbow. “That's enough to be analyzed.”

  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, peering at the bit of glass held in Molly's forceps. He hissed a breath between his teeth and part of Molly, a tiny part she had swallowed down and buried under layers of callouses, entire years of sorrow and hurt feelings and strength and confidence, cringed. “Yes,” he finally said. “It's enough. John, bag it. I'll be in the lab!”

  
John gave Molly an apologetic shrug in Sherlock's wake, holding out a small evidence bag. “Some things never change,” he said, smiling a little.

  
“Yes,” she said. “They do.”

 

  
Mycroft watched Molly through the seminar viewing window as she cleaned up after Mister O'Gorman's examination. Sherlock had swept in and out like a small riot, but Molly had not fluttered, She had not pinked and flapped, had not giggled or hidden away. A small part of him unwound, and another part of him burned with shame for feeling a splinter of envy over her former, mad devotion to Sherlock. He had wondered for months if, during their first and frantic coupling in her office, the one where her legs pulled him tight to her body, crossed at the ankle around his lower back, when she panted and mewled and clawed and he gasped her name in her ear and felt his face grow hot with embarrassment that he could be so unwound, so unfettered, as to make  _noise_... He had wondered if, then, she had been thinking of Sherlock. She had said “Mycroft! Oh! Oh, yes!” several times, and did not close her eyes under his gaze, but the worry had gnawed away quietly until that moment, when he could see her in person, not on a small screen, see how she was interested in the case but not the man... Mycroft tightened his grip on his brolly and inhaled, drawing himself up to his full height and walking to the morgue door.

 

  
“Oh! Two Holmeses in one day!” Molly paused in the act of removing her gloves. “Is the plural Holmeses or Holmes? Like moose?”

  
Mycroft felt a bubble of a laugh well in his chest and was not sure what to do with that. “Holmes and Holmes,” he said carefully. “So...yes, like moose.”

  
She beamed. “Well, you're nothing like a moose, really. I mean, outside of being a mammal. And a chordate.”

  
Mycroft did not reply, watching as she shed her protective garb and gathered her digital voice recorder and the paper copy of O'Gorman's file. “Would you like to join me for lunch, Molly?” he asked after the silence had stretched like taffy.

  
She paused, lips parting slightly, cheeks taking on the faintest tinge of rose. “Oh! Um... sure? I mean, sure! Yes! Is...is something the matter?”

  
A moment of confusion made him frown before he realized why she was asking. They had only gone out, gone to lunch or coffee or, twice now, dinner, when he needed to be sure of their privacy, sure they would not be overheard. Their sexual trysts had been accidental, mostly in her office, or one of his cars, but now, a handful of times, at her flat, and only after a careful text, an innocuous message asking how she was, if she was in need. She had never admitted to any  _need_ , but she had never turned him down. “Nothing is the matter,” he said, affecting a casual shrug, wondering at the flutter of nerves in his belly. If Mycroft had to label the feeling, he would say it was  _nervous_  or perhaps  _excited_ , maybe a mix of both. It became very important, in that moment, that Molly wanted to go out for lunch, wanted to spend time with him where they did not have to worry about eavesdroppers hearing anything other than boring, pleasant small talk and chatter. “The emergency this morning was not, in your words, terrible, and I find myself to have a bit of free time.” A niggling thought bloomed and the words rushed out before Molly could reply. “A bit of free time I would like to spend with  _you,_ ” he amended. “A bit of free time I would like to spend with you.”

  
Molly blinked once, twice, then smiled, ducking her chin a bit, not breaking his gaze but shying away just a little, enough to make him wondering if he should find it endearing or concerning.  _Is she afraid of me, or suddenly bashful?_  That thought tugged loose the thread that had been dangling from his knot of Molly-related feelings and it began to unspool slowly but inexorably in his belly as he waited for her reply.  _Is she... has she only slept with me because she felt she had to? Was she coerced into it by a fear of me? Oh, buggeration..._

  
“Let me clean up a bit and I can meet you in the main lobby,” she said, already turning towards her office.

  
It had only been a handful of seconds, the silence before her reply, Mycroft realized, and shook himself mentally. “Very well,” he said, wondering at how his voice did not shake though it wanted to, badly. “Upstairs then.” Molly's giggle followed him into the corridor.

 

  
Lunch was not terrible, Molly had to admit. She had been worried Mycroft had dire news, or needed more help with the Sherlock Situation, but in the few months since Sherlock had risen from the grave, she had not been pulled into any deep plots nor had she been fingered as accomplice in his perfidy. She knew that she had Mycroft to thank for that. The pleasant inertia feeling lingered through their meal, simple and delicious fare at a restaurant Mycroft chose, a tiny hole in the wall that could have been a five start Michelin place had the owners enough ambition. They talked, Mycroft carefully avoiding anything which smacked of politics or his brother and Molly doing her best not to go on and on about the tickets for the West End musical her mother had given her for Chanukah. As their meal wound down and coffee was brought out with dessert, Molly felt her belly clench.  _What am I doing here? This is mad. He doesn't need my help for anything. Sherlock is fine now, as much as he can be anyway, and I'm so dull compared to him. Bespoke suits and foie gras and I bet he has permanent tickets for the best seats in the house at any entertainment I could imagine._  Coffee scalded her tongue and throat as she took a nervous gulp, choking on her drink as Mycroft lurched forward to pat her on the back. “No, no, I'm fine!” she croaked, pressing a serviette to her mouth. “Just...wrong pipe,” she added, her voice thin and rattling with a cough.

  
Mycroft waved the waiter over and requested water, over Molly's protests that she was  _fine, really, I mean it_. “If nothing else,” Mycroft soothed, “it will ease the burning on your tongue.” His smile was somewhere between heated and concerned. Molly's cheeks reddened and he leaned a bit closer, adding, “I should hate for your lovely mouth to be damaged in any way.”

  
The clench in her belly became a full-on cramp. “Mycroft,” she began, growling in annoyance when the waiter appeared, solicitous and apologetic, proffering ice water and would madame like ice cream on the house, it would soothe her burn? “No, thank you,” she said, managing not to grit her teeth, “the water will be fine!” After another fluttery few moments of concern from the waiter, who was assured repeatedly that no one was holding the restaurant responsible for the hot coffee being hot, they were again alone in their small corner booth. “Mycroft,” she began again, her turn to lean, “what are we doing?”

  
“Enjoying lunch,” he replied, brow arching in that supercilious way she knew-- _knew_ \--meant he was going on the defensive. “Are you sure you're alright, Molly?”

  
“Don't...Don't do this,” she murmured, keeping her voice low. “Don't play silly buggers with me right now. I just... I'm confused, Mycroft. You don't need my help anymore, you don't need to protect me from the media or from my own supervisors... We've,” she paused again to swallow hard and force herself to meet his neutral, cool gaze. “We've had sex but it was always...stress relief.”

  
“Stress relief.” His tone was cold and hard. Molly was certain he would use the same one to say  _dirty nappy_  or  _Please, Sherlock_. “We...engaged in stress relief.”

  
“Well, yes,” she laughed brokenly. “The first time was right before Sherlock came home, wasn't it? When you knew he was heading back. Then, after that, it was after the press conference. And then...” she trailed off, shrugging. “Well, you'd always mention it was a rather tense day at the office, or you...you kissed me and...and touched me after I said I'd had a bad day.” She was red as a beet root, she knew that for a fact, and she could no longer meet his gaze. Her coffee-stained serviette was twisted into a hard knot in her lap, fingers white and pink from exerting so much pressure as she waited for Mycroft to say something,  _anything_  and break the miserable quiet.

  
“I see. Thank you, Doctor Hooper. Lunch was enlightening.” He stood, depositing a small handful of notes on the table. “Take your time with dessert, my dear, but I must be away.”

  
Molly called after him, but he did not look back, tucking his umbrella under one arm as he stepped out into the late afternoon foot traffic on the high street, disappearing in moments with the swell of tourists and schoolboys.

  
***  
 _Six weeks. Six damn weeks._  Molly gave the rib spreaders a bit more of a wrench than intended, wincing at the sound they made as she slid forward. Mycroft had not been by the morgue for six weeks. He had not sent Anthea to pick her up, he had not shown up at her flat, texted, called, messaged, sent a carrier pigeon... No sign of the man for over a month. After two weeks, she had gathered her nerve and asked John in what she hoped was a casual manner if he had seen or heard from the elder Holmes brother. “Thank God, no,” John had laughed. “Sherlock's elated! I told him he was being a prick but, you know how Sherlock can be.”

  
Molly smiled tightly, agreed, and pretended a sudden, deep interest in paperwork as John waited for Sherlock to finish with the centrifuge in the pathology lab.

  
She asked again a week later and received a similar response, but this time John's face wasn't amused. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips crimped into  _concerned doctor_  mode. “Why? Is something the matter, Molly? Do you need me to get in touch with him?”

  
She shook her head. “No, just...curious. I haven't heard Sherlock complaining about him in a while and, well, I suppose I got used to his visits while Sherlock was, um, away.” Molly bit down on her cheek hard enough to taste blood as she hurried away to the worktop and her array of slides and tests for Mrs. Leeson, ignoring the expression of grief and anger that flared in John's eyes whenever Sherlock's fake suicide was mentioned. She resolved, after that, to ask no more about Mycroft.

  
Now, six weeks since lunch, she was regretting that choice.

  
The morgue was going into overnight mode, her favorite shift but not the one she was scheduled to work this week, when Molly heard the click of heels on the lino flooring. “I'll be done in a minute, Patrice,” she called. “Just signing off on the last post postmortem from my shift.”

  
“Patrice is running late,” a bored, Sloaney voice intoned. “My time is not unlimited, Doctor Hooper. If you must wait for her, I suggest texting her or possibly requesting a stopgap replacement until Patrice arrives. Your presence is required.”

  
Molly felt a burst of joy, filling the gnawing ache in her belly, before it faded to a drab grey realization. He had sent Anthea (or Laura or Megan or Nell, whatever name she was on this week). He hadn't come himself. This was purely business. “Right. I'll tell Mike to come down until Patrice gets here, then.”

  
“Do,” Anthea drawled, sounding bored as could be, tapping away at her tablet.

  
Molly gathered her purse, her coat, her scarf, tucked her Thermos into her bag and met Anthea by the morgue door. “John and I have a bet going. You're actually playing Bejewled on there, aren't you?”

  
Anthea glanced up, one perfectly groomed brow arched. “Are you ready?”

  
Molly sighed. “Yes, yes, let's get on with it, then.”

  
Anthea huffed a breath through her nose and it might have been a laugh, but she did not say anything as they went up in the lift and through the employee entrance, out into the biting cold where a black car was waiting, engine idling. Molly moved towards the rear passenger side door, but Anthea stopped her with a hand to her wrist. “No, front seat,” she said, holding the door open for Molly and waiting, tablet finally tucked away. Molly felt a moment of disorientation before she nodded, muttered something that might have been agreement, and slid into the warm, plushly upholstered, front seat. Anthea closed her in and went around to the driver's side. “This is my car,” Anthea said as she buckled in. “There are no listening devices, no cameras, no GPS trackers...” She trailed off, smirking faintly. “Drives Mister Holmes insane.”

  
Molly laughed, the sound weak in the quiet car.  _Anthea is the sort he should be with, really. Works in the same field, sleek and beautiful. I'm sure she wouldn't gape if he took her to the opera or Paris or something._  Molly had to be honest with herself—Mycroft had never invited her to any of those places, and never even hinted at doing so, but she was fairly certain she'd gape. And probably spill something, say something gauche, or just generally be a charity case. “Why did he send you, then? Is Sherlock in trouble? Or is it... it is something else this time?” Acid roiled in her belly when Anthea merely hummed under her breath and turned off the main road, heading towards, from the looks of things, Tooting. “Anthea? Can I call you that? Is that...is that the name, this week?”

  
“Sure.”

  
“Anthea, why did Myc—Mister Holmes send you to pick me up? Am I in trouble?”  _Oh, God, what if he snapped and is having me killed? What if Anthea is in love with him and is insanely jealous and she's having me killed?_

  
“You're not an idiot, Doctor Hooper,” Anthea sighed. “Think it through.”

  
“That's the problem. I am. And it's not going well.” That earned a chuckle from Anthea, but no other response. Molly clutched her seat belt and tried not to panic as they switched roads again. One way or another, she thought, she would have answers by the end of the day.

 

  
Anthea pulled up in front of a block of flats in, indeed, Tooting, and turned off the engine of her overpowered car. “Mister Holmes is unaware of my actions today,” she said, her first words in over an hour. “I cannot stop you from relaying to him what I am doing or saying, but I do ask that you consider carefully how you approach the matter.”

  
“The matter of you kidnapping me?”

  
“Hmmm. That, too.” Anthea got out of the car, leaving Molly to follow. They went up a narrow, slightly weedy, walkway to the block's front door and, without even pausing to see if Molly was still behind her, Anthea headed in and up the stairs to the first floor. Molly trotted after, trying to keep up with the long-legged strides, succeeding only in being slightly out of breath by the time she caught up to Anthea in number 104. “This is my personal bolthole,” Anthea informed her. “I'm rarely here. It's one of several safe-houses and one I prefer.” She closed and locked the door behind them before smirking anew. “Don't look like that. I'm not telling you this because I'm going to kill you. I'm telling you this because you need to understand the gravity of what you are about to see.”

  
Molly nodded, feeling numb, and watched as Anthea went to a large breakfront and began opening and closing doors in a distinct pattern. After several moments, the side of the breakfront popped open and revealed a metal door. “That was...really pretty awesome.”

  
Anthea laughed. “My brother is a genius. A real one, tested and everything. He has a gift for gadgets and mechanics. He made this for me. The doors have to be opened and closed in a pattern that activates the contacts inside before the secret panel will open.” She shot Molly a look. “The pattern changes daily.”

  
Molly nodded. “I wouldn't dream of--”

  
“I know,” Anthea said. “Still.” She turned her back on Molly and fiddled with the metal door's lock, rocking back on her heels when it slid open.

  
Molly felt her eyes widen as Anthea turned back to her, holding an ornately carved wooden box with opal inlay. “That's...gorgeous!”

  
“Hand carved. It was made in the late 1800's for Mister Holmes' relative, a young woman betrothed to a sailor. Her family detested the match and actually rejoiced when the man was lost at sea. The young Miss Holmes was never the same. She pined, never speaking again, until the day she died over twenty years later.” Anthea set the box down on the coffee table and motioned for Molly to sit. “I found this under Mister Holmes' bed six weeks ago.”

  
Molly tensed. “Six weeks ago?”

  
“Mmmm. His silence was not entirely voluntary. Mister Holmes had a meeting out of the country. He was  _detained_ , rather without his consent, for the better part of two weeks.” Anthea fixed Molly with a rather intense gaze, and Molly had the distinct impression she was being scanned, any subtle shift and sign cataloged and analyzed within a split second. “When he returned, he decided it was best that he did not contact you again.” Anthea gave the box a small shove in Molly's direction. “Despite his deep desire to do so.”

  
Sitting heavily on the sofa nearest the coffee table, Molly shook her head. “I don't understand. What does this box... Is he alright? I mean, did they...was he...” She shook her head again. “I don't know what to ask first!”

  
“He's alive. He is uninjured. As far as detainments go, this was one of the more boring sorts.” Anthea looked a bit put out by that. “When it was determined he was being held without consent, I personally began a search of his private papers and quarters. It is protocol, for him anyway, that it is done in order to rule out any and all possibilities. He is fond of reminding his staff that things are not always what they seem and there are people in the world who would dearly love to harm him personally whilst making it seem to be political.” She gave the box another nudge. “The box was beneath his bed. I looked inside to check for bugging devices and possible explosives but found something else.”

  
Molly looked at the ornate, heavy box with wide eyes. She could not stop picturing Mycroft bound, hurt, lost, and tears began to prick her eyes at the idea of him in harm's way. “Anthea...”

  
“Oh, for fuck's sake! Open the box!”

  
Molly jumped at the sharp tone but found herself doing as ordered before she realized that her hands had moved. Inside the box rested a stack of index cards, color coded into pink, green, blue, and white, several small plastic bags with odd contents, and tiny glass vials, resting on what looked to be a silk handkerchief. Tucked behind it all was an unmarked CD, catching the evening light and making her wince as it seared her gaze. “This looks like mementos. Why are you showing me?” Anthea sighed gustily and Molly nodded. “Right, right, look inside.” After a brief hesitation, she plucked one of the bags up first. “That looks like yarn.”

  
“It's labeled. It took me about an hour to break the code, much to my own shame. The sticker on the back denotes that it is yarn, from your pink kitten sweater with the yellow puffballs. You snagged it on the chair at Speedy's the day he intercepted you on your way to visit John, shortly after Sherlock's supposed suicide. Some of the yarn caught and was left behind.”

  
“And he...collected it?”

  
“Mmmm.”

  
Molly blinked. “That's either rather sweet, or he's a serial killer.”

  
“If it was your hair or nail clippings, I'd suggest serial killer.”

  
“True.” Molly picked up one of the other bags. “A rock?”

  
“From the path leading to your door,” Anthea said, sounding as if the words left a sour taste in her mouth. “He picked it up the first time he dropped you at your flat.”

  
Molly nodded, the gaping maw in her belly slowly filling with what felt like tiny bubbles. There were over a dozen bags and she knew that each would contain something about her or from her. “What're these, then?” she asked, not expecting an answer, and plucking the first card from the top of the stack. Across the top, it read  ** _London Eye/Private Pod/Champagne/Mozart_**. Beneath, in cramped and spidery handwriting, Molly could make out a very detailed, very explicit fantasy involving her, Mycroft, and what seemed to be a new and interesting way to drink champagne. “Oh!”

  
“Pink are more romantic, apparently. Dinner, walks in the park, even,” she made a moue of distaste, “ice skating. Blue indicate fantasies of an established relationship, quite domestic, apparently. White are mundane things... coffee, visits to the bookstore, queuing for the museum. And green...”Anthea trailed off and looked away, to a spot over Molly's right shoulder. “Mister Holmes has a vivid and rich imagination as well as a way with words and imagery.”

  
Molly couldn't stop herself. She shuffled through to the green cards and selected the first one she came to.

 

  
**_Private residence/personal home/wine/Sinatra_ **

  
_Seeing her tangled in starlight, drapes open to the night as she lays on my bed. Smell her on my sheets and pillows for days after, breathe her in when she isn't there. Press of her against me, feel her heart race wonder if she feels mine, her fingers on my throat, my chest, my hands shake when I touch her. Can hardly breathe for want of her, feel hesitant to profane her with my hands, my mouth, my cock. She arches, breathes my name and it sounds like a prayer and I want to cry from it, want to beg her to say it again, but I bend to worship her, to be supplicant. Say her name, 'Molly,' say her name against he breast, her belly, her navel, taste her and she stretches out like a goddess, like a cat, like both and lets me, allows me, adore her and worship her. I can not make the words come in the daylight, make her hear how I admire her, lust for her, feel whole when I am near her--_

 

  
Molly placed the card back in the box, feeling dizzy and hot. She closed her eye and took a deep breath, then another. “I don't understand.”

  
“The vials are your perfume. It wasn't until I found the box that I understood why he was going to Boots and buying conditioner and deodorant meant for women by the bag full.”

  
Molly laughed, a watery sound. “That's...creepy.”

  
“Says the woman who was elbow deep in a corpse while discussing dinner plans last time I saw her?”

  
“Touche.” Molly closed the box gently and gave it a pat on the lid. “So he is in love with me, apparently, and...and... Oh my God!” She buried her face in her hands and groaned. “I broke up with him, didn't I?”

  
“To be fair,” Anthea said carefully, “you weren't dating. He...was vague. Careful, as he likes to call it, and cautious. But speaking as someone who cares about him quite a bit—not like that, don't give me that look—he was scared. He is not an easy man to like, much less love. And you know Sherlock. Surely you have gathered that their childhood and adolescence were not easy, less so than most other children.”

  
“He's a grown man,” Molly pointed out. “If he can tell the Latvian ambassador where to stuff it, he can surely tell a harmless woman he fancies her!”

  
“One would think, yes?” Anthea picked up the box and hesitated. “He knows it's missing. And he knows I have it. He doesn't know that you've seen it. It's up to you whether or not you let him know.”

  
“Would you lose your job, if he knew you showed me?”

  
“If I didn't get sacked after I told him to stop his whinging about wanting to call you, I won't get sacked for this.” She put the box back into the safe and began closing the breakfront.

  
“He—whinged?”

  
“Mmmm. Well, in his own way, yes.” In a horrible impression, Anthea intoned, “I am thinking of giving Doctor Hooper a call this evening.” Then she sighed a big, dramatic sigh and pretended to fiddle with cufflinks. “Perhaps not.”

  
Molly snorted. She couldn't help herself. “If that's a whinge...”

  
“Trust me. It's much whingier in person.”

  
She giggled again. “So he's in love with me. Am I...am I supposed to...what?”

  
“You're supposed to do what you need to do, with all of the information you have. He was never going to tell you the sex was more than casual to him. He was never going to suggest sleeping over, or romantic outings... He would rather live the rest of his life in friendship and casual shagging than risk not having you at all.”

  
Molly's mouth was dry and her heart was racing. “Oh.”

  
“Mmm. I'll take you back to your flat now. Don't make rash decisions but make well-informed ones.” And that was the last Anthea said to her for the entire evening, even when she deposited Molly at her own flat and drove away with nary a farewell. Molly stood on the dark stoop for a long handful of minutes, breathing in the cold and letting it drive away the odd heat in her stomach, the twisting thoughts in her head, until all she felt was impending snow and calm certainty.

 

  
Mycroft knew that something was amiss when he was summoned to the morgue at two in the morning. The text had been from Molly's number and simply read  _Please come._

  
Unbidden, visions of Sherlock actually harmed, harmed beyond help, sprang to mind and he fought the urge to call Doctor Watson and demand to hear Sherlock's voice. If it was an emergency, protocols were in place, he reminded himself, and he would have been summoned the moment the incident occurred. Instead, he forced himself to dress carefully in pressed trousers and a good, thick, hideously expensive (the only kind he owned) jumper, turn on his tracking device and emergency protocol beacon, and inform his personal body guards that he was heading out for a little while, he required privacy, and he would activate his beacon should the need arise. They weren't happy, but no one stopped him as he headed out into the night. It had been eight weeks since he last spoke in person to Molly and he ached from lack of communication. He would do without the sex, he told himself, he could do that easily. He just...wanted her. Any way he could have her. If she wished to date someone, so be it. He would smile for her, be happy for her, even throw her the goddamned wedding of the century, so long as he could hear her voice more often than not. A vision of sitting in a crowded lounge, babies that were not his crawling all over him whilst he tried to speak with Molly and she made doe eyes at some faceless man in a tatty sweater and rough hands, made his stomach roil.  _No, Mycroft. You are not Sherlock. Calm yourself and do not give in to flights of fancy._  That's what the box was for, after all. The box that had vanished, then reappeared two weeks ago, contents in order but he knew they had been touched, rifled through... He bit down on that embarrassment and soldiered on, turning his private vehicle out into the light flow of traffic and heading for Bart's.

 

  
Molly paced, waiting. Mycroft was late. Well, that was assuming he received the text at two and was actually coming, she reminded herself. He had not replied but he sometimes didn't. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool glass of her office window, willing her face to not be so red, hoping her palms weren't sweaty. The office, she decided, was a bad idea. They had had sex there four times, twice with her bent over her desk and Mycroft sliding into her slick and bare, making her fingers curl over the edge and her knees buckle as they moved without barrier, his breathy gasps going high pitched and fast just before he came inside her, her own sharp, stifled cry a moment later making him groan and press his face into her shoulders. The other times, her legs around his back or straddling him in her desk chair (awkward but effective), had a been fast and furtive, middle of the day fucks that were definitely stress relief and made her feel good, powerful, wanted. But loved? She hadn't thought about it. Mycroft was definitely attractive, she admitted, and she had long thought so, ever since the Irene Adler incident. He was powerful, and that was more than intimidating, but she knew more, knew better. He wasn't cruel in his power, not unless he needed to be so. He wasn't indiscriminate. He laughed, he had a sense of humor. He talked to her, not at her... She pressed her fingers to her lips as if that could replicate how his own mouth had felt against hers. She had come to depend upon him in her life, on their visits and trust and...well, she wasn't going to say the sex wasn't important. He had treated her like a person and not a tool. And she had not been deceived by the cold, hard persona he wore like a shell. At least, she mused, she liked to think she hadn't been. The hiss and clack of the outer morgue doors opening snapped her from her reverie and she swallowed a nervous giggle. “Here we go,” she murmured.

  
Mycroft filled her office doorway easily, calmly. He was surely exhausted, she thought, given it was after three in the morning already, but he looked crisp and ready, waiting for whatever she threw at him. “I saw the box,” she burst out, unable to hold the words in. His face crumpled for a moment, just a flash of a blink, but smoothed into it's normal lines before she could breathe. “Don't—don't do that,” she said hastily. “Don't be mad, don't be embarrassed. I'm...I'm glad she showed it to me.”

  
“Yes, I suppose one would be, hm? The aloof and prickly Mycroft Holmes has a sappy, sad side.” He picked at a piece of invisible lint on his jumper and sighed. “If we're done here?”

  
“No!” Her voice ricocheted off the high office ceiling and bounced between them. “No, we've done enough dancing around and miscommunicating. Listen to me!” She closed the distance between the two of them and took a breath, running out of steam under Mycroft's openly surprised gaze. “Mycroft. I... I missed you. A lot.”

  
“Ah.” It was barely a breath but spoke volumes. “I...too.”

  
She smiled, her fingers plucking at the front of his jumper. “I'm not good with words, really. Not unless it's an autopsy report or something medical. But I think... I think. Oh, bugger.” She dropped her hands and spun away from him, all but leaping at her desk to grab her Thermos. “On your cards, you set the scene, yeah? Location, even drink and music choices? Um, well, I'm not... I don't have as many options as you might so this is it. I mean, this is me.” She held out the Thermos. “Spiked coffee, my office in the morgue, and--”she reached behind her, patting her desk until she found her CD player. “Sinatra.That one, I could manage.”

  
Mycroft stood, frozen in place. He was so rarely stunned in his life that his brain wanted to take a moment and appreciate the novelty. “I...”

  
“I know,” she groaned. “It's a bit pants, isn't it? But,” she shook the Thermos again. “The coffee has crème liquer in it.”

  
“Molly,” he said slowly, taking the coffee away and setting it atop the nearest file cabinet, “I don't care.” Her face started to crumple, he could see it as he bent in for a kiss. He could feel the crimp of her lips, shifting from disappointed embarrassment to surprise to, ah, there it was, returning his kiss, as he pulled her closer. After a moment, they parted for breath and he said, eyes closed and hands busy against her braid, her back, her neck, “I'm an idiot.”

  
Her laugh was bell-like and silver. “No, you're shy!”

  
“I am no such thing,” he sniffed, pulling back a bit more. “I am, however, deeply ashamed that you saw those cards. I...I cannot begin to apologize enough for the--”

  
“Mycroft.” Her fingers against his lips stayed the words in his mouth. “Those cards? Okay, I was a bit...not embarrassed but, um, I suppose very self aware is the phrase I want. I didn't know. I...I had no idea. I thought I was stress relief for you, and I thought we'd settled into a lovely inertia.”

  
“Inertia?” he murmured, tongue tasting the pads of her fingers, sample the tang of salt and orange juice and skin.

  
“Mmm.” Her hands were moving now, too, leaving his mouth, tugging beneath his jumper to fiddle with his belt buckle. “We'd been meeting for so long and...”

  
“Molly,” Mycroft sighed, “this isn't intertia.” They were moving, swaying to the music, dancing slowly towards her desk. “I want you, Molly. In many ways, but most of all, at this moment, I want you naked.”

  
“No.” They stopped and she grinned up at him. “I might not be able to offer the same options you might, but I can offer my bed, in my flat, where neither of us will get a stapler up our bum.”

  
He chuckled against her neck. “The extras are nothing, they're fluff. But what I wrote on the card, the other things, the things on all of those cards... I'd been dreaming of them for months. I want to worship you, Molly Hooper. I want to kneel between your legs and drink from you...”

  
“Oh, God. Mycroft Holmes, if you don't get me back to my flat immediately, I am going to make a fool of myself in the lift, I just know it.”

  
He let her squirm free and smiled as she awkwardly gathered her belongings. “The morning shift begins soon, doesn't it?”

  
She nodded. “The place will be fine for a few minutes. Let's go.” She paused in the doorway. “Mycroft?”

  
“Yes, my dear?”

  
“It's very important that you know this...” She raised onto her tip-toes and leaned in. “I've not got any pants on.”

  
His smile was almost feral. “Really? Neither do I.”  


 


End file.
